


The Wonder Dog

by beili, Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Dogs, Gen, Music, Sheep, Terry Pratchett references, liberties taken with the operation of farms, no explicit spoilers for lies sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 04:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16926423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beili/pseuds/beili, https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: Dominic sends Peter a video of some singing sheep. The video's not a fake, and the phone that took it should probably be replaced.





	The Wonder Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rodo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rodo/gifts).



> No resemblance to entities living, dead, or otherwise existent is intended. This includes any Greenbrook Farm that might exist in Herefordshire, which a cursory Google search says there is not.

Dominic’s text message said, _Is this your shout?_ It was followed by a link to a video file hosted on Victor’s farm’s website, and then, after that, _I swear I’m not having you on._

I clicked on the link, and then, since the file was titled _singing.mp4_ , turned the sound on my phone up.

The video looked like it had been taken with a phone. The image was pretty dark, with what seemed like an electric torch shining ahead of whoever was holding the phone. What was lit up was mostly grass. There was a sound, and then a melody.

The torch’s beam moved to illuminate a group of sheep. Their mouths were open, revealing yellowed teeth, and I guessed this meant that the sound was coming from them.

Then the chord changed. The camera was about three meters away, and that was probably what was saving it, if it wasn’t a trick.

_It looks like a bunch of sheep singing something classical,_ I texted back.

_But is it your shout?_ Dominic texted.

_Can you give me a little more than that?_

_Victor took it two nights ago and sent it to me. Sheep do NOT normally do that._

_Yeah I figured,_ I said. _Let me check with my boss._

 

Nightingale said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that. Are you sure it’s authentic?”

“Dominic says his husband took it three days ago,” I said. 

“This is the Dominic who was of assistance during the case with the changeling?” Nightingale said, and when I nodded, continued “You should probably look into it. It could be a trick, but even if it isn’t, it would be worth it just to confirm that the incursions from the world of the High Fae have stopped.”

 

When I arrived, the sheep were singing Queen. It was real all right. They instantly sucked the energy out of my disposable calculators at a distance of about one meter, and probably caused damage up to four.

“Are you kidding?” Victor sighed when I told him his phone was probably not long for this world. “I just got a new one this summer.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Next time, stay further away from the unexplained thaumatological phenomenon and use your zoom instead.”

 

All things being equal, I would’ve liked to stay somewhere else than Victor and Dominic’s guest room, if only so I didn’t keep jolting awake expecting to have the fairy queen and her pet unicorns looming over my bed and staring at me. But I think I would’ve had that nightmare no matter where I slept.

I put out several UFO trackers in various parts of the field to get a better picture of what was going on. Whatever it was, it was certainly long-lasting; they’d gotten all the way through "Bohemian Rhapsody" the night before. It had been a pretty good cover, for an a cappella group that could only use the syllable “baa.”

“Is it every night?” I asked Dominic, who was giving me a ride over to Pokehouse Wood to check for new vestigia.

“Nah, last night was the third time,” he said. “Before the Beethoven we just thought they were doing something that could’ve been natural.”

“What were they singing then?”

“Well, it was just screaming, but in nice chords, you know?” he said. “We didn’t record it because we didn’t know you’d want to hear it later.”

“Right,” I said. “Wait, Beethoven?”

Dominic shrugged. “Classical’s all right,” he said. “And I played violin for a bit as a kid.”

 

Pokehouse Wood didn’t feel like much of anything beyond the usual natural tactus vitae, so we were pretty sure that it wasn’t Molly’s distant cousins. 

I filled out the IVA form for it in the car as we passed through Rushpool, including the Marstowes’ house - still with kids’ toys sitting in the front yard - and the Laceys’. There was still nothing more than lingering background vestigia, and the faded impression of _horse_ and _anger_ lingering around the stone fence that, given the available evidence, was from Princess Luna when I’d fought her. There was nothing fresher.

“Definitely still boring,” I told Dominic.

 

The sheep sang again that night. This time, it was while they were inside the barn, since the night promised to be chilly and wet. The detectors I’d put on the sheep went out immediately, all of them, but that could’ve been proximity to the affected sheep - and they weren’t all affected. It was only about two dozen of them.

However, one of the sheepdogs seemed to be in on it, a corgi-like little mutt with auburn fur and black patches. It was howling the main line of the refrain, while the affected sheep stomped on the barn floor in the signature dum-dum-dah rhythm of the song.

The other dogs, when I went looking for them, were huddled in a pile outside the barn, whining. I recorded the music from a probably-safe distance of about ten meters and sent it to Abigail and Postmartin, so they could compare it to writings in the various available libraries. I thought it unlikely that any of the county practitioners would have anything about sheep singing Queen, but singing sheep sounded just up their alley, and hadn’t there been something in the Bible about possessed pigs?

The next morning, I asked Victor if I could examine the dog that had been singing.

He took me to them, where five dogs stood up and panted happily at seeing him. They weren’t big dogs, but they were solid, with sharp, alert ears. A couple even looked like they might have had a corgi somewhere in their ancestry, but none were the dog I’d seen - and videotaped.

“Oh yeah,” said one of Victor’s employees, a short white guy named Marc whose shaggy hair was tied back in a bun, “I’ve seen that one around sometimes. He’s real calm, really good with the sheep. His collar says he’s named Titus, so I figured you’d picked him up and forgotten to say.” He gave Victor a confused look and added, “Tag does say he’s with Greenbrook Farm.”

 

Titus was back that evening, without the singing, so I dangled a piece of organic local chicken - courtesy of Dominic, who was still eating meat, even if according to the husband’s principles - and said, “I don’t suppose you can be interviewed, can you.”

“Woof,” said Titus, watching the meat. 

It had been too much to hope for, I guessed, and then I said, “Wait, did you just actually say ‘woof’?” Truly, life imitates art.

“Woof,” Titus said again, emphasis very definitely on the ‘said.’ 

“I guess that’s short for ‘do whatever you want, copper, but I ain’t talking,’” I said, and gave him the chicken.

“Thanks,” he said, and because I’d been expecting it, I definitely didn’t jump in shock and shriek a little. He licked his chops, then lay down and started scratching at his side with a hind leg. “How’d you figure me?”

“The singing along with the sheep was a bit of a clue,” I said. I pulled another piece of chicken out of the container and offered it to him.

“It’s catchy,” he said ruefully, and licked the chicken out of my fingers.

“Are you actually a dog?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m just dog-shaped right now. This is awfully good chicken.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and gave him the whole container. He buried his muzzle in it, one foot thumping rhythmically against the floor. A couple of the sheep started humming what I found out later was a song by Adele.

“Would you mind stopping that,” I said. “Only I can’t have a conversation over it.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled through the last of the chicken, and it stopped.

“Is there something you want?” I said. “Normally sheep don’t go about singing.”

“Shows what you know,” Titus said genially, and licked the container a little before settling down. “I want some proper respect, regular music, and a sheep at the solstice.”

“I think,” I said, “you should talk to the owner. Can you wait while I get him?”

“Yeah. And bring more chicken!”

 

“I think I’m glad I called you,” Dominic said two days later. “Except now I have a household god shaped like a dog who keeps shedding all over the furniture and demanding chicken and replays of _Hamilton_.”

“Singing sheep,” I said.

“They were getting pretty good at being in tune,” he said, smiling faintly.

 

“We’ll want them to come in for MRIs,” Dr. Vaughan said. “And the dog.”

“The dog-shaped lar,” I said, using the proper Latin term for a household god.

“We’ll see about that,” she said.


End file.
